


Too many names

by Silfrvarg



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 04:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silfrvarg/pseuds/Silfrvarg
Summary: Neal gets into trouble with no backup when someone recognizes a former alias while he's undercover. Thankfully Peter has his back afterwards.





	Too many names

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for H/C bingo with the prompt being 'Mistaken Identity.' It's my first time writing for a while, and my first time writing for this fandom, so it's probably terrible but I'm posting it anyway.

One of the nice things about working with the FBI, Neal decides, is that when he needs a new cover identity to infiltrate an investment firm that’s skimming millions off their customers they kindly provide him with one. The less nice thing is that he doesn’t get to pick his name, and someone clearly has a sense of humor because why else would he have been saddled with a name like Bruce Jacobson. Does he look like a Bruce?

Still, Neal Caffrey wasn’t about to be hired by a business as outwardly respectable as this, Bruce Jacobson however, with his expensive business degree and impressive list of references, was all but a shoe in. It had only taken a few smiles and just the right blend of confidence and brown nosing to nail the interview, and after two weeks of mind numbing boredom he had tracked down who was skimming the accounts, how they were doing it and where it was being sent.

The money led to the company’s vice president, a smug son of a bitch named Jonah Thorne who’d had Neal, or Bruce rather, running errands for him since day one. Apparently he was hard enough on his employees that no one else wanted to deal with him, and so it was the new guy’s job.

Fortunately being treated like an intern for a couple of weeks had paid off, he’d had full run of the entire building. He’d been able to spend an entire afternoon in the records room snooping for the discrepancies between the in house paperwork and the official paperwork that he knew were there. He’d been walked in on a few times, but an aggrieved look and a tired sigh sold the idea that this was just some new way Thorne had thought up to torture his employees. Everyone bought it, which told him that his instincts about the boss were right on at least one front: the man was an asshole.

He has enough evidence between the files and the money he’d been able to track to prove that people’s life savings were being siphoned into an offshore account held in the name of Thorne’s nephew, and it is certainly enough to make an arrest, but Neal has been stuck doing pointless busy work under this guy for two weeks now. He wanted to nail this bastard, and he isn’t going to settle for anything less than a recorded confession.  
To that end he had all but jumped at the chance to go to the dinner being thrown to celebrate a partnership between this firm and another that Neal suspected was just as dirty, if not dirtier. Thorne may be an asshole, but he did understand that if you don’t offer your employees some sort of incentive they’ll run off and work for your competitors.

* * *

The dinner is at one of the nicer sports bars in the area, and Neal’s sipping on an imported craft beer that’s the sort of thing Bruce Jacobson liked and laughing with his coworkers as he waits for his turn at the pool tables. The music is a little too loud, and the place just a little too crowded despite the fact it has been privately booked for the night, but it’s pleasant enough, as these sort of things go.

The twenty or so employees of Stanton Financial Services’ New York office are all here, and, for the most part, they’re good people, totally ignorant of what Thorne was up to. There are also about fifteen people from the firm they were partnering with, Beckett and Hale, and the two companies are encouraged to mingle, so mingle he does.

So far he’s overheard that Cindy’s best friend was pregnant, Mitchell had just bought a new car and William’s wife was mad at him for going to a strip club on Friday night. He hopes that the people who get the pleasure of analyzing the audio he’s recording on his pen will be suitably scandalized.

He needs to get something actually relevant to the case, which meant he needs to get closer to where Thorne are discussing things with the bosses from Beckett and Hale. Passing his pool queue to Mitchell he walks over to the bar, ditching what was left of his mediocre but expensive craft beer on the way over and ordering a glass of bourbon.

From where he’s sitting at the bar he can just hear Thorne’s discussion about the finer points of working together, about how Stanton Financial hade made sure all their books were in order, and how Beckett and Hale should do the same, just to be safe you understand?

Neal resists the urge to grin into his drink, if he was close enough to hear it, the pen was close enough to record it, and it was the sort of thing that, when combined with the evidence they already had, could certainly help the case. Not a confession, sure, but the night was young.

He’s allowing himself a moment to feel satisfied that this long, boring case was finally drawing to a close when someone sits beside him, leaning far too close into his personal space to be polite. There’s another man behind him, all but breathing down his neck.

“It’s Nick Halden, right?” The guy next to him asks, his voice low and menacing, clapping a hand over Neal’s shoulder in a way that’s anything but friendly, “See, I’m confused. Your boss over there swears your name is Bruce. You don’t look like a Bruce to me though. To me you look like Nick Halden. What say we go for a walk, yeah? Sort this out. You wouldn’t want to start a scene with all these lovely people around, would you?”

Neal keeps his face confused but mostly calm, scanning the room. Thorne and the guys from Beckett and Hale are watching him, and he knows he’s been made now. If he goes with these guys… Brian he remembers one of them is called, Brian Haywood, well, there’s not many ways that can go well for him. If he starts something here though, it’s a room full of innocent, or mostly innocent bystanders, and frankly, Neal has no idea how far these guys will take things. He likes to think they’ll keep things civilized, but he’s got no guarantee of that.

Making up his mind he downs the rest of his shot and stands, letting Haywood and his silent friend steer him through a door and down into the storage cellar and wishing he had a way to signal Peter this time. He had the pen, but that only recorded, it didn’t transmit, and they’d left the watch off for this one, reasoning that a few investment bankers weren’t much of a threat. Neal was beginning to question that reasoning.

Apparently a few investment bankers were more than happy to toss him down the stairs into the cellar, and Neal hears the music pick up in volume as someone turns up the karaoke machine. That explains how they’re going to muffle any noise he supposes. It’s smart, he’ll give them that, with the rest of the employees busy drinking and singing and playing pool no one is going to notice anything that happens down here.

Neal is focusing on the facts, focusing on evaluating their plan, thinking about it in an abstract sort of way, because it distracts him from the jolt of pain as his legs slam into the concrete floor of the basement, from the fear that coils in his gut as Haywood and his buddy drag him deeper into the room, as Thorne and the two higher ups from Beckett and Hale descend the stairs.

Neal is being held by the shoulders between Haywood and his friend, who Neal christens Bob until he can come up with something else. His arms are behind his back, and though he might be able to struggle out of their hold, it wouldn’t get him anywhere with so many people between him and the stairs, so he doesn’t fight it, not yet.

“So, what’s this all about Haywood?” Asks one of the Beckett and Hale guys, Birch he thinks the guy was called.

Neal opens his mouth to ask the same, still playing the part of new employee, confused, a little panicked, utterly clueless about why anyone would drag him into a basement.

Before he can get a word out a hand snaps out and punches him in the face, and he reels backwards into the arms that hold him steady, staring at Birch with genuine surprise as blood trickles down from the new cut on his lip.  
“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking him. What’s this about?” Birch growls, and no, that’s not a pleasant voice, Birch is dangerous, clearly willing to get rough even before he knows the situation.

Thorne is looking a little uncomfortable, but doesn’t seem willing to step in and protect his employee, not that Neal was really expecting him to.

Neal is really wishing he’d taken the watch instead of the pen.

“This guys a snitch for someone!” Haywood says, squeezing Neal’s right arm and shaking him by it for emphasis, “Last place I worked, Jennings and Rall? This guy shows up, only his name’s Nick Halden that time, and a week later the whole company goes down for fraud, except that guy’s standing there with the guys who arrested my boss grinning like it’s all a joke! This asshole cost me my job, I nearly ended up in prison ‘cause of him! My bosses did end up in prison ‘cause of him!”

Thorne’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Neal is certain that whatever protection he was willing to extend to his new employee has just expired.

“We’ve got a problem then,” Thorne says conversationally, walking forwards and getting into Neal’s face, peering curiously at the blood as it makes its way down Neal’s chin.

Neal keeps his eyes on Thorne, tracking his movements warily, wondering how he should play this one. Playing innocent employee won’t work, they won’t believe it, and even if he could sell it they wouldn’t risk it. Corporate spy might work, except there’s no reason for a corporate spy to infiltrate a place like Stanton Financial. He’s really got two options that could work.

Option one, he tells them the truth. He says that he’s Neal Caffrey, consultant to the FBI, and he has retrieved evidence of Thorne’s dirty practices, but if they surrender now than the charges will be kept purely white collar and he’ll probably go to the nice prison.

Option two, he tells them the truth, or a version of it anyway.. He says that he’s Neal Caffrey, con man, and he has been nosing around in their accounts, that if he wanted to he could have taken a lot of money for himself, but that he’s seen that they’re dirty, and he wants in. Better a steady income that a one off theft, right?

Either option has a distressingly high chance of him ending up dumped in the Hudson before the night is done. He hast to stall though, has to make it look like he's cooperating without giving them everything at once, because once they know everything, well, there's no reason to keep him alive anymore then.

If it was just Thorne he'd go option one, the man was an asshole but he probably wouldn't kill a ‘fed’. Probably. Birch and the other guy though? They didn't seem like the sort of men who'd balk at murder.

While he's been making up his mind Thorne has gotten impatient apparently, because he nods at Haywood and Bob, and then Neal’s arms are being twisted up behind his back and a firm kick to the back of his legs knocks him to the ground, he's knees hitting the concrete painfully as he's forced to stay kneeling by the men on either side of him.

Neal can't help the pained grunt that escapes him, and he glances at Haywood reproachfully, not that the man cares. Then there's a hand twisting in his hair and Thorne is dragging his head up by the painful grip, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” Thorne hisses, shaking him by the hair and Neal's eyes are watering from the sharp pain.

“Look…” he starts, but he has to clear his throat, his voice hoarse with pain and not a little panic, “Obviously I'm not Bruce Jacobson, but I'm not Nick Halden either… I'm…”

A fist slams into his gut, courtesy of the other man from Beckett and Hale, and he can't quite remember the guy's name when he's gasping for air and trying to curl in on himself to ease the blinding pain in his stomach.  
“Stop stalling!” The man says harshly, but Neal has the suspicion he just wanted an excuse to hit him.

“I'm a con man!” Neal pants out past the pain, “I was going to steal from you, alright!”

“Wait… if you’re a thief what the hell were you doing with the Feds when they swept into Jennings and Rall?” Haywood demands, twisting his shoulder harder and Neal yelps, struggling a little.

“Jennings and Rall screwed me over, so I screwed them back! They were sloppy, I found out what they were up to and offered to help them hide their tracks better if they'd cut me in, but they let me do the work and tossed me out on my ass with nothing. I don't let people get away with cheating me,” Neal says, voice going from pained to angry, “If they'd given me what we agreed on the Feds would never have known they were dirty.”

“So you were going to steal from me?” Thorne demands angrily, twisting the hand in his hair viciously.

“Guy’s gotta make a living!” Neal gasps, eyes screwed shut in pain, neck bending awkwardly.

The grip in his hair releases and he lets his head fall back down with a groan of relief, breathing hard. Thorne has walked away and is pacing angrily, and Neal watches him warily, keeping his head lowered.  
This is the moment of truth he supposes, Thorne is clearly deciding what to do with him.

“How much did you find out when you were snooping in my files?” Thorne demands threateningly.

“Enough to suspect you’re as dirty as Jennings and Rall were,” Neal admits, cringing away as if expecting to be hit again, “You’re smarter than they were though, there's no proof.”  
Neal sags in the arms that restrain him, visibly defeated and exhausted and resigned.

“So, here's what's going to happen,” Thorne hisses menacingly, “I should kill you and leave your body in a dumpster, but I'm not going to. Frankly, a piece of shit like you isn't worth the hassle of killing.”  
Neal droops in relief, but Thorne isn't done yet.

“So no, I'm not going to kill you. But I am going to have my friends here work you over until you wish I had. See Bruce, or Nick, or whatever your name is,” Thorne leans in, whispering into his ear, “I don't let people get away with cheating me either.”

“Thorne… what if he goes to the cops?” Birch asks.

“He won't, because if he does… well, I’ll just have to let them know that one of my employees was misusing company funds, stealing people’s money. They don't look to kindly on con men taking people's life savings, he’ll end up in prison, and I’ll make sure everyone knows just how willing he was to sell people out to the Feds.” Thorne says smoothly.

“Please,” Neal begs, eyes wide and frightened, “I won't… I won't go to the cops, I swear!”

“No, you won't, or what you get here will look like a love tap compared to what you'll get in prison,” Thorne says cruelly, turning away to walk up the stairs.

“He's all yours, just don't kill him. I don't want to deal with the hassle of a dead body.” He calls over his shoulder, and Birch and the other guy are grinning at him menacingly.

Neal should be relieved he supposes, he's managed to avoid getting killed, which was a very real possibility for a while there, but this… this is going to suck.

The unnamed thug, not Bob, the other guy, is looking around the store room with interest, and when he comes back into view his looking very pleased with himself, and Neal swallows in apprehension. He’s gotten his hands on a roll of duct tape, and, more worryingly, a chipped and broken pool cue. Neal cringes back, and he wishes that he could tell himself that this is part of the act, that this is him playing the part of helpless and frightened so they will go easy on him, but he’s not in the habit of lying to himself. He is helpless and frightened.

His arms are held tightly, and there is no way he is getting free of the hold anytime soon. He can’t get to his phone in this position, can’t call for backup, and, as they smooth a strip of duct tape over his mouth, he can’t even cry out for help. He’s got no escape roots, no way to talk himself out of this. There is no con, no game to be played here. All he can do is endure it.

It’s not like he’s never been roughed up before, the first few weeks of prison before he convinced everyone he was worth more as a friend than a target were no picnic, and working with the FBI isn’t the safest occupation, but he’s rarely been in a position where he was this helpless.

He hears a swooshing sound a split second before his chest seems to explode in agony and he’s jolted violently from circular thoughts that he’d gotten lost in. He’s almost grateful for the duct tape gag, because he can pretend that no one heard the pathetic groan that escapes when he tries to breathe through the pain.

He blinks, dazed, and lifts his head warily, watching the guy with the pool cue intently, determined not be caught off guard like that again. Despite his best intentions though, every blow that follows still feels like a surprise. The harder he tries to focus on what’s happening, the more he feels himself drifting, and after the first few blows everything just seems to run together.

It feels almost unreal, almost like this is happening to someone else, like he’s just an observer. At the same time, it’s dizzyingly, terrifyingly real, it’s the realest thing he’s ever felt. That’s his chest and stomach that the pool cue is striking, over and over and over. That’s his blood that’s staining it from where the blows have broken skin, his choked, pathetic whimpers that he’s hearing.

It’s real, it’s undeniably real and it’s happening to him but he still can’t quite believe it. He just doesn’t understand, how could… how could they be enjoying this? How could they be laughing as the beat him, what sort of person actually likes inflicting pain like this? How could Haywood be grinning like this was a special treat arranged just for him, how could Birch be waiting eagerly for his turn?

It’s too much. He’s not naïve, he knows there are bad people out there, people who enjoy the pain and misery of others, but it’s one thing to know something, quite another to have the realization hit you in the face with a pool cue.

For all his faults, all the lies he’s told and the laws he’s (allegedly) broken, he’s never been violent. The thought of purposefully hurting someone… let alone hurting them like this… it’s sickening. It’s wrong, it’s the antithesis of everything he is and just seeing it, seeing someone take so much pleasure from hurting someone, from hurting him... it’s almost as bad as the pain.

Almost.

So he does the only thing he can, he checks out, he lets his mind wander somewhere else. He’s still aware, dimly, of what’s happening. It still hurts, it’s still terrifying, he’s still desperately afraid that they’re going to take it too far, that they won’t stop until he’s too broken to fix, but somehow it just doesn’t matter as much anymore.

After what could have been a moment or an eternity the thugs seem to grow tired of beating him. Birch is in his face again, ripping off the tape harshly, and he’s saying something but it’s muffled, distorted, Neal can’t quite make it out and he doesn’t think he cares too much anymore.

A sharp slap across his cheek smarts enough that he blinks and tries to focus. Birch jams the pool cue under his chin, using it to lift his face and force him to look up, to meet his eyes.  
“You go to the cops, and this is just an entrée, got it?” Birch asks harshly, and he’s clearly expecting a response.

Neal doesn’t think he has enough strength to open his mouth right now, let alone make anything come out, so he just meets Birch’s eyes steadily and nods once in mute understanding.

“Good boy,” Haywood sneers at him. The pool cue is dropped, left to clatter noisily on the floor, and the sight of the red stained wood is oddly captivating. He’s sagging limply in his captor’s grip, unable to even contemplate moving right now. He barely feels it as they drag him towards the shelving.

He certainly does feel it when Haywood, apparently not wanting to leave without a final reminder, takes his shoulder and twists, a sudden popping, wrenching feeling that’s enough to steal his breath in a harsh, animal cry of agony.

By the time the spots have cleared from his vision his hands have been duct taped together looped over the strut on the metal shelving that he’s slumped against. The position is agony on his shoulder, and he moves as much as he can, slowly and painfully, until he’s facing the shelving and kneeling as upright as he can manage to take the pressure off his shoulder.

With a final shove and a derisive laugh Haywood, Birch, ‘Bob’ and the guy who never got a nickname leave him alone.

* * *

Neal just kneels there, on the concrete, resting his head gently against his arms. It’s quiet now, the dinner has clearly ended by now, and he doubts that anyone even noticed he was gone. No one knows that he’s down here, and the thought should bother him more than it does, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it too much. Everything seems muted and muffled, like the world is behind a pane of frosted glass.

He stares numbly at his bound hands. He should try to free himself, he could probably manage it, he’s gotten out of more secure restraints than this before, but it just seems like too much effort. Later, he tells himself, resting his head, he’ll escape later.

Time has slipped away from him again, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was left alone down here when he hears a surprised gasp and the sound of shattering glasses. Tiredly he raises his head and turns to look behind him as best he can, meeting the eyes of the bartender, who’s still standing there with his mouth open in shock, having just come down the stairs with a tray of clean glasses.

“Shit!” The bartender says when he finds his voice, seeming impossibly young and scared.

Neal sympathizes, and his mouth twists wryly as he tries to force himself to talk, ignoring the pain of his split lips, “Th’t- That about sums it up, yeah.”

There’s hurried movements behind him and Neal flinches a little, reflexively, but the bartender seems more scared than he is right now, so he’s hardly a threat to Neal. Still, he can’t help but groan in pain as the guy cuts through the tape binding his wrists, jostling his shoulder despite clearly trying to be gentle.

Finally free to move he slumps down against the shelving, feeling boneless in relief despite every part of his body shrieking at him in agony.

The bartender, and he focuses, sees the kid’s nametag, Jimmy, is nervous and panicky but seems like he’s getting a grip on the situation now.

“Right, we need- we need to call an ambulance. I think you’re hurt pretty bad, right?”

“Yeah…” Neal admits reluctantly, “Hospital’s probably a good idea. Just gotta… gotta call someone first.”

“Who?” Jimmy asks, confused, “Police?”

“Something like that,” Neal says with a shadow of his usual cheeky grin, “Um… not sure if my phone’s still intact. Could you… could you reach into my left breast pocket and check for me? Can’t move my arm…”

“Yeah! Sure!” Jimmy says, seemingly glad for someone to tell him what to do, and he’s reaching tentatively for Neal’s phone, clearly nervous about hurting him further. Gentle as it is, the fingers brushing against his chest make him shudder in pain, and he bites off another miserable groan.

Jimmy’s gotten the phone though, and the screen is cracked but not broken. Neal holds out his left hand to take the phone, and Jimmy hands it over.

Neal’s never been so glad to be ambidextrous as he finds Peter’s contact and dials. It takes a few rings before he picks up, and Neal looks at Jimmy and tries to give him an easy smile, but he’s sure it probably looks more like a grimace.

“Neal, do you have any idea what time it is?” Asks Peter, his voice gruff and clearly Neal’s woken him up.

“Uhhh, not really?” Neal admits sheepishly.

“Late, Neal, it’s late,” Peter sighs, and Neal can almost see him scrubbing a hand over his face, even over the phone, “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Err, long story but you’re going to get a call soon anyway, from hospital, not sure which one, haven’t called the ambulance yet,” Neal admits, “Probably should have done that first…”

“I’ll do it,” Jimmy says, grabbing his phone, and Neal nods at him gratefully.

“Never mind, someone else is calling them for me. Nice guy, bartender, I think I might have ruined his night.” Neal huffs a laugh.

“Neal,” Peter interrupts, serious and alert now, and Neal can imagine him going into work mode, “What’s happened? Where are you?”

“Remember how I said I didn’t need the watch ‘cause investment bankers aren’t exactly dangerous? Might’ve been wrong about that one. I got made, and they’ve roughed me up a bit. More than a bit. It was at that dinner I had to go to, I’m still at the sports bar, I forget the address though…” Neal trails off, trying to remember it. He doesn’t normally forget important details like that, it’s sloppy…

“It’s ok,” Peter assures him, and Neal can hear him moving about, pulling shoes on, grabbing keys, “I remember the address. How badly are you hurt?”

“Bad enough that I’m not arguing about the ambulance,” Neal admits, “Think I’ve got a few busted ribs, and they did something to my shoulder.”

“Ok. Ok, you get someone to call me as soon as you know which hospital you’re going to. I’ll meet you there and I’ll let the marshals know so they don’t turn up to arrest you the moment your name shows up.”

“Appreciate it. Hospital’s bad enough without handcuffs, and they’re a pain to pick when you’re drugged.” Neal says, winking at Jimmy who’s looking a little surprised.

“Hasn’t seemed to slow you down before.” Peter says and Neal can hear the smile in his voice. There’s also the sound of an engine, Peter is driving, but he seems determined to keep Neal talking.

“So, investment bankers?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, they’ve got a mean swing. Must be- must be all the golf.” Neal quips back, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk as he shifts a little, trying to find some way of sitting that hurts less.

He’s starting to drift a little again, he can still hear Peter, who’s trying to keep him talking with a story about how truly bad he is at golf, but things are getting… fuzzy.

“Peter- I don’t feel so good,” He admits quietly, “Everything’s all… wobbly.”

“It’s ok Neal, I just need you to stay awake for me, ok? Do you know how far away that ambulance is?” Peter asks, and he’s worried now. That’s the worried voice, probably accompanied by the worried frown, and Neal doesn’t like making Peter worry about him.

There’s movement around the stairs again, and Neal startles in fear, cringing back, and he thinks he must have made a noise because Peter’s talking in his ear again, his voice low and soothing and it shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

“It’s ok Neal, it’s just the paramedics, they’re there to help you, not hurt you.”

“You sure?” Neal asks, and he hates how uncertain he sounds.

“I’m sure, trust me.” Peter sooths.

“Yeah… I can do that. Told you Peter, you’re the only one I trust.” Neal says, and he doesn’t… he’d never tell Peter that, normally, but it’s important, he needs to know.

“I know Neal…” Peter says, and he sounds almost sad, “I know. You’re going to be ok.”

“You think so?” Neal asks hopefully.

“Yeah, I do. Listen, you’ve got to let the paramedics treat you, is there someone you can pass the phone to, Jimmy was it?”

“Ok, I can do that. You’ll be there?”

“As soon as I can get there.”

“’Kay. Here’s Jimmy. Be nice, he’s nice.” Neal says, passing the phone to Jimmy, who’s still looking pretty shocked about the whole thing.

Finally Neal is able to focus on the paramedics, who have been trying to get him to lie down so they can assess his injuries.

“Sir, can you hear me now?” One of them is asking, her voice calm and professional.

“Yeah… I can hear you. I’m just not very… what’s the word? My head’s all… fuzzy.” Neal admits sheepishly.

“I’m not surprised,” She says, checking him for injuries from head to toe, “Those are some nasty bruises you’ve got. Can you tell me your name?”

“Neal, Neal Caffrey,” He says.

“Ok Neal, you’ve got a head injury so we’re going to have to put you in a neck collar. It’s just a precaution, but we don’t know if there are any spinal injuries and we have to be careful. Is that ok?”

“Yeah, s’fine, do what you need to.” He agrees tiredly.

“Thank you Neal.” She and the other paramedic put the collar around his neck, and having his head immobilized is weird, he doesn’t like it.

He thinks he might have said that out loud because the paramedic is apologizing.

“I know it’s uncomfortable, just hang in there.” She reassures, and he wishes he could nod at her.

They’re checking him over for injuries now, and he winces at every touch, because it hurts. His shoulder is a special kind of agony as they gently move it, trying to assess the damage, and it feels as if every single one of his ribs is screaming as they cut him out of his suit to check his chest for injuries.

He pouts, he liked this suit. As they’re pulling the pieces away he remembers.

“Wait, need something from that… the pen! Jimmy, hold on to the pen, it’s important, Peter will know. Please?” he calls out, and then Jimmy is in his field of vision, holding the pen and smiling at him like he’s trying to keep him calm.

“It’s ok, I’ve got the pen. Peter says it’s ok. Just let the paramedics do their thing.”

“’Kay. Thanks.” Again, he wishes he could nod. The collar is annoying, he can’t look at anyone, doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s confusing, and a little frightening, not that he’d admit it to anyone.

He winces as various pains make themselves known under the probing hands on the paramedics, and when they start to press on his abdomen he cringes and cries out hoarsely, the pain stealing his breath away.

When the spots clear from his vision the paramedics are moving with new urgency, and he's sure that probably means something bad. He's been rolled onto a stretcher now, and he's a little concerned that he didn't notice that earlier, but he's got no time to worry about that as they are lifting the stretcher and carrying him up the stairs and out to the ambulance.

As he's being rolled in, Jimmy is there.

“Hey man, you’re going to be fine. I've told Peter which hospital you’re going to, and he’ll meet you there. He said… he said just stay calm, you’re in good hands.”

“’Kay. Thanks Jimmy.” Neal slurs.

Then he's being wheeled into the ambulance and the doors are shutting. The paramedics are touching him again, poking and prodding, but it's all too much. Too much light and noise and pain, and Neal lets it wash over him and surrenders to the darkness at the edge of his vision. It's ok, Peter told him it was going to be ok, he can rest now.

* * *

 There's someone snoring. That’s the first thing Neal notices when the world starts to filter through again. Everything still feels sort of fuzzy, but it’s a different kind of fuzziness. Before, it felt like he was drowning, like the world was crushing down on him. Now it feels like he’s floating. He decides that he likes floating better.

Everything is pleasantly hazy, he can’t really feel much more than a warm sort of numbness, but if the vague impressions he’s managing to get are accurate, that’s probably a good thing right now. He remembers pain, and noise and light and people shouting at him, or maybe they were shouting about him, he doesn’t know.

He tries to catch his train of thought, but it’s already slipping away from him, the soft fingers of sleep creeping back in, and with a sigh he surrenders to it.

* * *

 The next time he’s aware he’s a little more coherent, enough that he knows he’s in the hospital without having to open his eyes. Unfortunately being more lucid means he can actually feel his body, and the moment he pays attention to it the pain jumps out at him, as if it had been lying in wait to ambush him.

An involuntary groan forces its way out of his dry throat, and even to his own ears it sounds pitiful, but he doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about it, not even when he feels someone carefully taking his hand.  
“Hey Neal,” a voice says softly, “Are you awake?”

“No?” Neal croaks, hoping that the voice will go away and he can sleep again.

“Nice try,” and Neal knows the voice now, it’s Peter, “Can you open your eyes?”

“Don’t want to.” Neal pouts, not caring who sees it.

“Well, you’re arguing with me already. You must be more awake this time,” Peter teases, and the hand on his is squeezing gently.

With a sigh Neal opens his eyes a crack, wincing at the unfamiliar brightness and closing them again. Steeling himself he tries again, slower this time, blinking away the gritty feeling.  
When the world resolves into recognisable shapes he sees Peter, sitting in the chair to the left of the hospital bed and smiling at him, looking relieved.

“There we are. It’s good to see you awake Neal, you had us all worried,” He picks up a cup from beside the hospital bed, “You’re probably thirsty, do you think you could manage some ice chips?”  
“Yeah… sounds nice.” Neal says, trying to raise his arm only to find it’s too heavy to want to move right now.

Peter sees his dilemma and holds out the cup for him steadily so he can lean forwards and grab one of the chips with his mouth. It feels like heaven on his throat when it melts, and he grabs another one before nodding at Peter.  
“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Peter smiles at him again, but then his face turns serious, “Neal, do you remember much of what happened?”

“Yeah…” Neal says reluctantly, wishing he didn’t remember, “I ran into someone who recognised Nick Halden and I got made. I managed to talk my way out of being killed, but they roughed me up a bit.”

“A bit?” Peter sighs, “Neal, you were more than a bit… never mind. Do you remember what happened afterwards?”

“The bartender found me, Jimmy was it? Called you, he called an ambulance, paramedics were there, put me on the stretcher… I don’t remember much after that, just… noise and light.” Neal trails off, shrugging his good shoulder.  
Peter nods, and he still looks a little worried, “How about I go let someone know you’re awake? The doctors can fill you in on how you’re doing better than I can.”

Neal nods. He supposes they probably still have him on some pretty heavy duty painkillers, which means his injuries are probably fairly serious. He knows his shoulder was dislocated, and his right arm is in a sling, but beyond that it’s hard to tell.

Peter comes back, and he’s got the doctor with him this time.

“Hello Neal, I’m Doctor Blaine, how are you feeling today.

“Tired, a bit sore,” Neal shrugs, before smiling disarmingly at the doctor and joking weakly, “So, doctor, am I going to make it?”

The doctor just smiles faintly, but Peter tenses at the joke, and Neal raises an eyebrow, “So, not good then?”

“We expect you’ll make a full recovery,” Doctor Blaine assures him smoothly, “However your injuries were quite serious. By the time you had gotten to the hospital you were bleeding internally, and we had to operate to stop the bleeding and repair your spleen, which had ruptured. You also have some internal bruising on your kidneys, however we didn’t need to operate on that and have been monitoring you to make sure they are functioning correctly. Additionally you have several cracked ribs, and two broken on your left side. Your right shoulder was dislocated and has been reduced non-surgically, but will need to stay in the sling for some weeks to recover. You have bruising and several welts and shallow lacerations over your chest and abdomen. The bruising on your face is, thankfully, mild and you do not have any facial fractures, although your lips were badly split and required butterfly bandages to seal.”

Neal blinks, taking in the information with something like surprise. He’d expected the welts and bruising, and the busted ribs are also no surprise, but he hadn’t thought they’d hit him hard enough to make him start bleeding internally.

Doctor Blaine seems to be waiting for a response, so Neal looks at him with a wry expression, “So how long am I going to be stuck in hospital for?”

“We want to keep you under observation for another day or two, just to make sure everything is functioning normally. After that you’ll be released, although you’ll be on bed rest for at least a week, and you’ll have to have a follow up visit with a doctor before you’re cleared to go back to work.”

Neal nods, and it’s probably a sign of how poorly he’s feeling because he doesn’t feel inclined to argue about being stuck in hospital, even if the food is terrible.

“How are your pain levels at the moment?” Doctor Blaine asks, checking his charts.

Neal thinks about it for a moment, “Manageable,” he says, “My chest is pretty sore, especially the left side, but as long as I don’t move around too much I can cope.”

“Well in that case we’ll keep you on your current levels of analgesia. We will need to start tapering the dose down over the next day or two so you can go home with a prescription for painkillers, but we’ll do our best to keep you comfortable.”

“Thanks doctor,” Neal says, and he’s already starting to feel tired again.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Doctor Blaine says with a smile, walking out of the recovery room.

It’s quiet for a moment after that, neither Neal or Peter knowing quite what to say. Finally Neal breaks the silence.

“So, you were right about me being more than a bit roughed up,” Neal admits sheepishly, “I hadn’t realized it was that bad.”

“You were already in shock when you called me,” Peter said, and Neal can pick up the leftover worry in his voice, “You weren’t too coherent. I’m not surprised you didn’t realise how bad you were hurt at the time. I’m just glad the bartender found you when he did.”

“Yeah… me too.” Neal says, subdued.

“Hey, don’t think too hard about it, ok? You’re going to recover just fine, and the guys who did this to you are going to go away for a long time.” Peter assures him.

“You got them?” Neal asks, sitting up a little with a wince, suddenly interested.

“We did,” Peter smiles, looking pleased, and Neal can see the protective look in his eyes, knows that Peter was very, very satisfied to nail these guys, “The recording you gave to Jimmy was enough to arrest Jonah Thorne, James Birch, Michael Kane, Brian Haywood and Caleb Winters for assault. It’s interesting, once they realised that they’d gone after one of ours they seemed very eager to sell each other out, they were all but tripping over themselves for the chance to.”

“Hmmm, interesting…” Neal muses idly with a grin, “I wonder why that was?”

“Well I was scowling, grumpy about being woken up, you see? Diana was very clearly outlining just what sort of charges they could have been expecting if you’d been hurt any worse than you had, just for reference of course, and Jones was telling stories about how many people you’ve managed to make friends with who would be… distressed to hear you’d been injured.” Peter says with a smile.

Neal blinks in surprise. He’d been expecting Peter to be upset about him getting hurt, he was his partner, or something close to it, and also technically his responsibility. He was a little surprised about Diana and Jones though, sure, he liked them, but he was never sure if they felt the same way about him. He smiled a little to himself; it was nice to know they cared enough to get protective on his behalf. He was never quite sure whether he counted as ‘one of us’ or ‘one of them’ when it came to things like this.

“It’s nice to hear they are so dedicated to upholding the law,” Neal says with a wide grin, his eyes twinkling a little, “Really, I feel much safer.”

His tone is gently mocking, but he catches Peter’s eye long enough to try and convey that he is being sincere, a little anyway. It does mean a lot to him, to be able to count on Peter, and Diana and Jones, to have his back.

“I’m sure you do,” Peter jokes back, before his face falls a little, “This shouldn’t have happened to you Neal. You’re an informant, you’re our responsibility and we’re supposed to protect you. We dropped the ball on this one; we should have been monitoring you more closely in case something like this happened.”

“It’s not your fault Peter,” Neal sighs, “None of us thought Thorne would get violent, he’s an asshole yeah, but everything we had on him suggested he’d be more likely to cut and run than hurt anyone. It was just bad luck that Haywood recognised me, and that Birch and Kane were more than happy to get their hands dirty. There was no way to know that was going to happen.”

“Still…” Peter says, shaking his head, “Next time you’re taking the watch. I don’t want you going undercover without backup again.”

“I think I can manage that. I have to say it’s nice to know you guys are close if things go south,” Neal admits with a grin, “Nothing like the FBI following my every move to make me feel safe.”

It should just be a joke, pointing out the irony that was his former pursuers becoming the people he could rely on when he needed help… but it’s not. He smiles at Peter, not the wide, innocent smile he wears when he wants to charm his way out of something, but something smaller. More real.

Peter seems to understand, because he gently claps him on the shoulder and smiles back.

“You’ll have to give a statement when you come back to work,” Peter tells him, “But you don’t need to worry about it until then. Just focus on getting back on your feet for now.”

Neal nods, and his head is drooping a little now.

“Get some rest, you look like you need it,” Peter suggests, standing up and preparing to leave.

“Yeah… think you might be right about that.” Neal says, wriggling as much as he can to get comfortable again and closing his eyes.

He feels a hand on his shoulder again, a comforting squeeze, and the last thing he hears before the world melts away again is “Sleep well Neal.”

Maybe this is one of the nice things about working with the FBI too.


End file.
